


i want to love but it comes out wrong, i want to live but i don't belong

by Cazio



Series: Concatenation [8]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Post-Divorce, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Themes, Vomiting, get your pain for steve here, i guess?, pain for steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cazio/pseuds/Cazio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can always come home,” Bucky said quietly.</p><p>Steve gave a halfhearted snort. “And where is that, exactly?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want to love but it comes out wrong, i want to live but i don't belong

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags for triggers.
> 
> one more installment left. mwahaha. 
> 
> thanks again to shae, for all of your amazing editing work that makes me feel like this series isn't complete shit lolol (any mistakes you see are probs mine that i made after she edited |D )
> 
>   
> _"Love flowers in the springtime,_  
>  _In October we were wed,_  
>  _In the wintertime the roses died,_  
>  _The blood ran cold and then she said:_  
>  _I want to love but it comes out wrong,_  
>  _I want to live but I don't belong,_  
>  _I close my eyes and I see,_  
>  _Blood and roses."_  
>  \- Blood and Roses, The Smithereens
> 
>  
> 
> _[twenty years after]_

           

Steve leaned over the edge of a rooftop terrace, eyes wide and throat tight as he stared into the churning sea. There were too many people. Too much noise that he couldn’t account for or defend himself against.

His shoulders pinched and he vomited without really noticing. Then he was sucking down gulps of salty air that clawed down the back of his throat all the way into his lungs. His hands shook uncontrollably and his heart rate was higher than it had been in years—even faster than the wild beat pulsing from the nightclub just a few buildings over.

“I can’t,” he gasped, his voice wet. “ I ca—“

He vomited again, though this time it was just a punch in the gut with nothing coming up his throat but stomach acid.

The waves hissed below and a sea breeze sent a chill down his spine.

Blaine took a long sip of his beer from where he leaned on the terrace wall beside Steve, scanning the rooftops.

“You can,” he said. “It’s scary as fuck the first time, but that why we’re here a day early.”

Steve took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, trying to will the nausea away.

It wasn’t working.

“Aren’t you nerv—“ He retched again, doubling over and wishing like hell that he had eaten more before he getting on the plane.

“This isn’t my first leave, bud,” Blaine murmured before taking another swig of his drink. “You’re gonna be nervous the whole time.”

Steve gripped tightly to the white stucco underneath his palms, breathing hard as he fought another wave. He could feel eyes on him. He could feel the prickle of crosshairs on his back, his head, his chest. All around him people were talking, filling the night air with so much fucking noise that he couldn’t think.

There was no comm in his ear telling him what to do, no weight of his Kevlar and equipment slowing him down. He was weightless, like a goddamn fairy, waiting for a wind to blow him right off the roof into the Aegean.

“Want a drink?” Blaine asked after a slow scan of the roof.

“N-no,” Steve stammered before dry heaving one more time.

His head was spinning.

Blaine set down his beer and stepped away, but only a few paces. He returned with some napkins and handed them over. “Wipe off your mouth. You really don’t want phlegm in your beard,” he said, rubbing his stubbly chin as if to show Steve how to do it.

“Thanks,” Steve muttered, wiping his mouth. “ ‘M shaving it off tonight anyway.”

Blaine didn’t say anything.

After dabbing a napkin on his tongue to try to rid his mouth of the burn of stomach acid, Steve stood up straight again. He felt hollowed out, like a husk of a human being.

“Let’s just have them meet us back at the room,” Steve said weakly.

Blaine snorted. “And let them know where we’re staying? Let anyone else who might be watching know where we’re staying?”

Steve frowned and moved over to sit at one of the empty tables. Blaine was right.

“I’ll order us something to eat. I’ll be back in five, yeah? If that,” Blaine said.

Steve looked up almost pleadingly as Blaine stepped back toward the warm light coming from inside the bar, but said nothing.

The moment Blaine was gone, his throat tightened up again and rocks settled in his lungs. The shadows on the terrace churned, hiding silhouettes of men with weapons. A flapping string of flags above resounded in Steve’s ears as the slaps of bullets tearing bodies apart.

He looked around, analyzing the space for suspicious movement, but the noise of the club was too much like the booming of gunfire.

Even in the night sky above, he swore he saw an enemy UAV, an oncoming Predator strike, or the flicker of a bomber wing in the moonlight, ready to turn the whole island into a bloody mess of rubble.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clawed at his temples, fighting the growing urge to throw up yet another time.

A seventy-year time shock had been nothing compared to this. Coming out of the war had been a walk in the park.

“You’re all right, Rogers,” Blaine said, and Steve felt the thuds of his near-silent footsteps as he approached.

He looked up just to make sure it was Blaine. Without the sound of boots and the clacking of equipment, someone could easily just be trying to fool him.

Blaine set two beers down on the table and a basket of some sort of fried bar food. Probably an attempt to please the young American tourists crawling all over this place.

Steve grabbed the beer and took a swallow, grimacing as the taste of hops mixed with the rather unpleasant remnants of his breakfast.

Blaine grabbed a fried whatever and popped it in his mouth with a crunch. He was pretending to be nonchalant, but Steve saw the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes slid over the surrounding buildings all over again. The way his fingers twitched, looking all too bare without his combat gloves.

“Eat,” Blaine demanded, shoving the basket toward him.

Steve grabbed a piece without hesitation, relishing in the fact that he had an order to follow. He popped the mystery food into his mouth and tasted some sort of batter, something cheesy, and some kind of seafood. It was delicious.

He grabbed another.

Blaine smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Trust me, if you don’t eat…you think you’re seeing things now.” He lifted his brows and laughed, though it was a bitter sound. “I saw some kid with chicken wings and—well, first I thought he had a pistol, but then I grabbed him by the collar and put a knife to his throat—and he handed them right over.”

An uneasy sound left Steve’s throat that might have been a chuckle if not for the tightness of his chest.

Two shadows appeared in the archway between the bar and the terrace and both Blaine and Steve looked over. Steve’s hand flew to where his rifle was usually resting, and inwardly panicked when it wasn’t there.

Then he caught a gleam of metal and he swore he could have sobbed at the sight.

He stood up on shaky legs, grazing his fingers on Blaine’s shoulder like he did when moving up from behind him on mission. Habit.

Bucky stood there in a worn leather jacket, black cargo pants, and a grey shirt that looked as warm and comfortable as he remembered home being. The white and black sneakers on his feet screamed civilian, and Steve could only try to smile. Bucky was out of the war.

Bucky had made the right decision not joining again.

“Holy shit!”

Steve looked over at Bucky’s side to see Sam, eyes wide and smile glowing. It had been over five years since they had seen each other and Sam was definitely older, but he still had his goofy grin and charismatic swagger to his step.

“Sam,” Steve breathed with a hint of a smile, unsure of what to do.

Blaine stood up beside him, gazing at Sam and Bucky with the same uncertainty as Steve.

Nobody moved for a moment and once again Steve had the urge to feel for a weapon. Silence and staring only came before fighting and killing.

“Who’s this?” Bucky asked carefully, nodding toward Blaine but keeping his eyes on Steve.

Steve swallowed hard and tried to relax. “Oh, jeeze, yeah. This is Blaine. We work together.” He looked at Blaine and motioned to Bucky and Sam. “Blaine, this is Bucky, and that’s Sam.”

Blaine cracked a smile and extended a hand, but Steve could tell the action was forced. “I’ve heard a lot about both of you. Barnes, it’s truly an honor,” Blaine said with a dip of his head.

Bucky smiled and Steve found himself unsettled by the fact that it was genuine. “Can’t say I’ve heard anything about you, but I think that’s part of the deal,” Bucky said.

“Blaine,” Sam said, sticking his hand out. “You gotta last name?”

Blaine’s smile tightened a little. “I just go by Blaine.”

Sam cocked a brow. “Well, I do. Sam Wilson. I’m pretty cool too.”

Blaine chuckled. “So I’ve heard.”

Sam grinned and gave Blaine a once-over. “You serve?”

Blaine shook his head. “Nope. Civilian.”

Their unit didn’t exist. Therefore, they didn’t exist as soldiers.

Steve thought maybe Sam would try to push things further, but instead he just shrugged. “Ah. Well, I was in the Air Force way back when. Might’a seen me on TV before—I’m the guy with the wings.”

“Wings you stole from the FALCON project,” Blaine said, and maybe there was a challenge in his voice.

Army and Air Force did not get along.

Steve looked away when he noticed that Sam had connected the dots. His gaze was a mix of accusing and downright pissed, Steve couldn’t suffer it head-on.

“Yeah,” Sam said carefully. “Bucky was giving me the update on the flight over. How’s the world-traveler life treating you and your new _civilian_ friends?”

Steve swallowed, feeling sick again. He didn’t like lying to Sam, but anyone could be watching, listening, recording. “It’s great. Been awhile since I’ve been to Greece though.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ll bet.” He took a tentative step forward. “Hey man, it’s all good. Just give a man a hug.”

Steve hesitated.

Sam’s voice went gentle, like it always did when he went into therapy mode. “It’s okay. I get it, man. No hugs is just as fine as lots of hugs.”

Blaine snorted and Steve cracked a little smile before opening his arms. “Sorry,” he said. “Hey, Sam.”

Sam hugged him tight, and it drove shame right into his heart. Shame for not being able to keep up his façade of happy, normal Steve for more than five minutes. Shame for acting so strange to the friend who had helped him so much.

The hug didn’t last long before Sam was stepping back and asking Blaine where the hell he could get a beer.

“You two go get drinks,” Steve said. “And get more of those fried things.”

“Fried things? Yeah, let’s get some ‘a those,” Sam said.

Blaine shot Steve a look that he could tell was a ‘I can’t believe you’re sending me off with a fucking _airman_ ’ look. It made him smile just a little bit more.

Suddenly molten hot shrapnel was burying into his skull.

Steve gasped loud and flung up an arm in a reaction of complete terror. It happened quickly—he threw an elbow out and clawed for his head in a pointless attempt to stop the searing pain of his bones and brain melting, little noises of agony breaking from his battered throat, shaking his head, shoving, flailing—

Then his arms were pinned in place and he would have screamed if Bucky hadn’t looked so frightened.

The pain in his head stopped.

Chest heaving, Steve looked around wide-eyed, trying to put the pieces together.

The molten shrapnel hadn’t been molten shrapnel at all, just Bucky’s metal fingers ruffling his hair like he always did.

“I just—Fuck, sorry,” Steve blurted out, his heartbeat still pounding in his ears. “You—Don’t do that without telling me first, Buck. I’m sorry.” He swallowed hard as Bucky let go of his forearms and he began looking Bucky over. “You’re okay, right? You’re okay?”

Bucky nodded slowly. “I’m okay…Steve, are _you_ okay?”

He tried and failed to crack a smile. To joke it off. “Um, yeah. I, uh—Blaine says it takes a little while to get adjusted.” Bucky knew that. Bucky knew all too well. “This is just…It’s different.”

A pathetic chuckle left his lips as he lifted his hands that were shaking so hard it looked like he was trying out a dance move.

“Look at that. ‘M all shaky.”

Bucky lifted his hands and took Steve’s, feeling out the vibrations for himself.

Steve saw it register on Bucky’s face that other people might think they were _holding_ hands and he quickly released his grip.

“What the hell are they doin’ to you over there?” Bucky hissed with fear in his eyes.

“It’s not what’s happening there, it’s what’s happening _here_ ,” Steve replied with a wheezy kind of chuckle. “Tonight’s probably gonna be bad, but that’s why we’re here a day early. The shock’ll wear off by the rehearsal.”

“Oh, great. I feel better already,” Bucky said dryly. He frowned. “Is it…can I give ya a hug? Is that okay?”

God, people were already starting to treat him like he was fragile. Bucky of all people should have known better.

“’Course it’s okay,” Steve said, putting his arms around Bucky to save them the awkwardness of Bucky not knowing how hard to embrace him.

Being in Bucky’s hold had once felt like safety, but now he felt constricted and pinned down. But this was Bucky, so Steve just hugged a little tighter to try to force the feeling away.

“You ever need anything, you just call me, got it? I’m up all the time. Only person that ever calls is you,” Bucky murmured, carefully sliding his hand up Steve’s back to thumb at the base of his neck, in the same manner that someone put a hand on a horse’s rump to ensure they didn’t get kicked as they walked around it.

“I know,” Steve said quietly. “I really am okay, Buck. It’s just today.”

“Tellin’ yourself that doesn’t work for very long,” Bucky said.  He squeezed a little tighter, though Steve already felt like his ribs were going to fracture. “You’re still Stevie Rogers to me. You don’t gotta pretend like you ain’t scared ‘cause I’ll see right through it.”

“Buck,” Steve groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I just wanna catch up with you and Sam tonight. It’ll help me.”

Bucky reluctantly pulled back and gave Steve’s shoulder a rub. They locked eyes and Steve was so tempted to look away, but managed to hold the stare.

“You can always come home,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve gave a halfhearted snort. “And where is that, exactly?”

Bucky opened his mouth to answer, but then Blaine and Sam appeared, drinks and baskets of appetizers in hand.

“Steve, your friend doesn’t laugh at my jokes,” Sam said with a pout. “I know they’re funny so I think he’s just got a stick up his ass.”

Blaine rolled his eyes and Steve forced himself to laugh, bridging the negative space between the dusty, abandoned pathways in his brain that told him that the joke was funny, that it was okay to laugh.

Steve grabbed his beer from the table and lifted it to the night sky, to the shadows on the rooftops, to the demons lurking in every unfamiliar sound. “To good friends,” he said.

Everyone pretended not to notice the way his bottle shook.

 

  

* * *

 

 

Blaine pulled off the cap of a syringe, holding it between his teeth as he checked to make sure the solution inside was free of air bubbles.

Steve was calm and as close to happy as he was capable of getting. The tremors in his hands were mostly still, and there was a warmth at the base of his spine that told him he was mostly safe. Pretending he was buzzed helped things, and had even allowed him to crack up at Sam’s story of when he adopted a bulldog and the neighbor kids had trained it to skateboard without telling him. Cue a ridiculous look on Sam’s face as he retold driving into his parking spot and seeing his bulldog flying by on a board.

It hadn’t been long before women—and men, after awhile—started coming out on their roof to join them. Bucky and Blaine mostly ignored them, talking to each other about sniping and discussing war politics. They were fast friends, just as Steve had known they would be.

“Is this really necessary?” Steve asked as Blaine tugged a tourniquet tighter around his bicep.

Blaine shot him a look, the cap still in his mouth, and nodded. The moonlight turned his light hair silver and his skin a strange color of blue.  He spat out the cap and checked the needle one more time.

“I don’t give you this and you’ll wake up and try to kill someone,” Blaine said evenly, pressing his thumb against the crook of Steve’s arm where the bump of a vein was visible. “Obviously, this dose would kill me, but I got some extra from Sharp just for you.”

Steve’s brow creased. “You’re taking some too?”

Blaine nodded, leaning closer out of habit before slipping the needle into Steve’s arm.

Steve had never done heroin before, but he imagined this was something like that. He felt the solution seep cold into his bloodstream, followed by a tingling sensation so fierce that the only word he could think to describe it was orgasmic.

“You’re sure this isn’t bad?” Steve breathed.

“Illegal? Totally.” Blaine smirked, pulling the needle from Steve’s skin. “But not addictive. It was designed for us, actually. For extended undercover ops.”

Steve could only imagine the kind of constant terror that would come with having to live with civilians for any length of time.

His blood tingled so pleasantly. Steve tipped his head back and closed his eyes, taking time just to breathe.

“There you go,” Blaine chuckled. “Much better, huh?”

Steve nodded. “How come you didn’t give me this before?”

“This’ll only work twelve hours on you, with the way you’ve been responding to meds lately. I only brought enough to get you through tonight, the rehearsal if you need it, and the wedding,” Blaine explained.

The tingling started to fade. “It’s wearing off,” Steve murmured.

Blaine’s fingers were suddenly at the dip of his collarbone, but Steve wasn’t startled. His body had long since memorized the difference between the touch of a teammate and the touch of someone else.

Steve could feel his pulse thudding against Blaine’s fingers and the breath bouncing off of his arm.

“Nah, you’ll be good for the twelve,” Blaine said, slipping his hand away. “Like I said, it’s not addictive. The idea is that you don’t feel it working.”

Steve frowned. He had been hoping that tingling feeling would stay.

Blaine put the syringe in a pouch and dropped it to the floor before crushing it beneath his boot. When he picked it up again, he placed it into his pack. His hand lingered inside for a moment. Steve turned his head to see what was causing him to hesitate.

When Blaine removed his hand from his pack, there was a card between his fingers, perched there like a cigarette.

Blaine held it away from him, but Steve already knew what he was trying to hide.

_“Mary Jane Watson and Peter Stark cordially invite you…”_

The indented gold leafing on the letters was real gold, though Steve knew that he hadn’t even gotten one of the real invitations. He knew because Peter had used almost the same invitation as his and Tony’s wedding. Steve and Tony had decided to send their closest friends special invitations made with slate that had been coated with a micro-thin layer of vibranium.

And Tony has saved a core of it. When Steve had asked him why, he had just given him a sweet kiss and told him it was “for the future.”

But Steve had a paper invitation. Thick cardstock with a nice weight, but paper nonetheless.

Tony hadn’t even called to make an excuse about why the ‘Rogers’ was missing from Peter’s last name. Steve was pretty sure it had been legally changed.

“Your kid’s a real prick,” Blaine muttered, tossing the invitation onto the table beneath the window.

“Hey,” Steve growled. “That’s my son.”

Blaine looked up at him and gave a little frown. “You know something bad’s going to happen tomorrow,” he warned.

Bucky had only said it about a hundred times at the bar, and Sam probably a dozen times more before he had left the bar with a nice girl. Bucky had gone back to his hotel, unable to sleep anywhere foreign that wasn’t at least ten stories up.

Steve wasn’t stupid.

He had learned time and time again that any hope of having a good time at the rehearsal dinner would be pointless.

“But he’s my son. He’s still my little Petey, y’know?”

Blaine pulled out a new syringe and another bottle of solution.

Steve started pulling off his tourniquet. “If he really doesn’t want me at the wedding, I won’t go. But I want to be there to support him. I don’t want him thinking I’ve abandoned him. That’s what Tony thinks.”

He handed over the tourniquet once it was untied and handed it over.

Blaine shook his head. “You do me. Let’s see how rusty you are. Don’t fucking miss my vein, yeah?”

Steve cracked a smile and grabbed the supplies as Blaine pulled up his sleeve.

“So, you were saying,” Blaine murmured, watching as Steve sucked the drug into the syringe.

“Oh, yeah. Well…I think most of it is just me being selfish,” Steve continued with a dry chuckle. No, he was being completely and utterly selfish, ruining Peter’s day and causing drama by bringing Blaine, who would be seen as his date the entire time. “But I still…” His voice went quiet. “I still want to feel like I’m part of his family.”

Blaine frowned, but didn’t say what anyone else would have: _“But you are part of his family, Steve.”_ Blaine knew just as well as Steve did that it just wasn’t true.

So Blaine stayed quiet, watching as Steve pulled the tourniquet tight and lined up the needle.

It slid in easily, and Steve pushed the down the plunge.

Blaine let out a shuddering breath and his face relaxed.

This had to be addictive. Or at least bad.  But honestly, Steve didn’t care. He trusted Blaine not to get him into anything that would prevent him from performing as an operator.

“Is Tony going to be a problem?” Blaine asked, tipping his head back just as Steve had.

“Tony? No.”

Blaine popped an eye open. “Even though you’d still fuck him if he asked?”

Steve cut him a glare. “Blaine.”

Blaine tongued the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Okay, since we’re on leave, I can ask you a personal question.”

“Asking me if I’d fuck my ex husband wasn’t a personal question?”

Blaine smirked, but it faded. For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, “You think you’re gonna be alone the rest of your life, Steve?”

“Well, no. I’ll keep serving until—“

“That’s not what I meant.”

Of course it wasn’t. Steve took a deep breath, flexing his arm a little just to see if the tingling sensation would return.

It didn’t.

“I guess so, yeah.”

He tried not to think about it. Sometimes he tried to think about another man’s lips on his skin or about being pressed close to another warm body, his fingers tangling in a man’s hair.

Sometimes he tried to force himself to imagine Bucky, only to feel ashamed about it because there was no way in hell he was ever going to be attracted to Bucky that way. He’d even tried to think about Sam, but then he always pictured Sam’s cheerful grin and shuddered.

He was more successful when he forced himself to imagine Blaine in that kind of situation, but thinking about anything more than touches—trying to picture the way Blaine might look at him, for instance, shorted out the “fantasy” altogether.

He couldn’t even revert back to his memories with Tony. Now it felt like trying to imagine making out with a cousin or something. It grossed him out just thinking about it, made his skin crawl.

Even thinking about their last kiss on his doorstep almost eight years ago made his nose wrinkle up in disgust.

But worse than that was the parasite in his gut that gnawed at his insides whenever he thought about spending the rest of his life absolutely and utterly alone with no hope of ever finding love again.

The thought that all of his kisses were spent, that he had already received every loving touch he would ever get, that no one would ever smile at him in the middle of a conversation and say “I love you” again—it was a feeling that gutted him.

Blaine sat up again, his moment of high now past. “Was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?” Steve asked, though he knew exactly what Blaine was asking.

“Getting a divorce.”

Steve looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. But all he had to do was close his eyes and remember the arguments where he and Tony had shoved each other against walls, yelling about risking too much or not being home or not acting the least bit acceptably in a briefing. All he had to do was remember the pure fury he had felt, and how many times he had only kept his fist from Tony’s jaw because a voice in his head screamed for him to stop.

Most of all, he remembered the one time he had gotten so angry at Peter for the constant barrage of questions about everything from why the sky was blue to why JARVIS wasn’t a person. When he had snapped so venomously at his little son that Peter had burst into tears and ran off.

He remembered the look of absolute disbelief and disappointment in Tony’s eyes when Steve had descended to the lab to apologize.

All he had to do was think about how it would have gotten worse. How he wasn’t strong enough to fight off the dark thoughts that crept up in his anger.

“Yes,” Steve finally answered in an even tone. “If I had a chance to do it over, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

His son ignored him and his ex husband thought he was a horrible father, but Steve would take that over becoming an abuser any day.

Blaine let out a diffusing sigh and packed up the syringe, crushing it just as he had done Steve’s and placing it back in his bag.

Steve stood and headed over to his bed, leaning to pull out a large hard-shell suitcase from underneath it. “I’ll take first watch,” he said, flicking open the latches and pulling out his assault rifle.

Blaine didn’t hesitate. “Wake me up in six hours.”

Steve returned to his chair and looked out the window into the alleyway below and then to the night sky above.  They were not safe here. But even aside from the enemies that might be lurking in the shadows, Steve thought of tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner. He already knew he would be sticking his neck beneath the guillotine. He would be alone at a table with people who would think he was there out of spite, just to prove that even though his invitation had arrived three months after Bucky’s, he was still going to show.

He cocked his head to peer down the sight of his rifle as a woman came into view, her sandals slapping against the stone walkway beneath her feet.

Steve drew up his line, his crosshairs glued to the center of her chest. She couldn’t see him, and he didn’t have his finger on the trigger.

But he watched her walk down the alleyway and just before she turned the corner and out of sight, his finger shifted and he touched the metal scythe at his fingertip, running down the little curve but never firing.

If Blaine hadn’t injected him he probably would have killed her just to feel like he was doing good.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The restaurant was far different than the regular tourist fare. They sat at a grand table, with five waiters and waitresses scurrying around to make sure the serving plates were never empty and glasses were always full. A massive chandelier hung above, and the room was decorated with white and gold accents—Peter and Mary Jane’s wedding colors.

Steve adjusted his collar for the millionth time before staring down at his plate. He was never sure how to eat at fancy parties. He had never learned what fork went where, what spoon was for soup and which one was for sauces (was it even for sauces?). But everyone else at the table was eating happily, making pleased noises at the taste of the tender lamb meat.  Steve wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hold the rib in his fingers and bite off the meat, or to cut it with his fork.

He didn’t want to stare down anyone else to watch how they were doing it, so he just pushed his food around on his plate and didn’t eat anything.

He wasn’t really hungry anyway. Throwing up just beforehand had kind of ruined his appetite.

“Sorry I’m late,” Tony said as he folded his sunglasses and placed them on the table. He pulled out the empty chair beside Steve. “They kept me there to talk about pricing. As if I care.”

Peter looked down the table for the first time that night.

Steve kept his eyes down.

“Dad, your spot is up here,” Peter said.

Tony paused, but Steve didn’t look up to see his expression. “There’s two chairs up there. Steve, why are you sitting down here?”

Steve shrugged, spearing a piece of lettuce with his fork. He had gotten the message very quickly. He was here because Tony had probably insisted upon it, but he certainly wasn’t welcome.

“Because that’s his seat, Dad,” Peter said. “Your seat is up here.”

“Then what’s the other one for?”

“For Jackson. I didn’t know he wasn’t going to be here.”

Jackson had been called to an emergency meeting and was flying in that night to make the ceremony in the morning.

“So why doesn’t Steve sit in Jackson’s spot? There’s no use in him sitting back here if there’s a free chair,” Tony said.

There wasn’t a use in him being here at all.

Peter shook his head with a little eye roll and murmured something to Mary Jane, who laughed. “Dad,” Peter said, “Just sit down. Appetizers are already over.”

Steve only knew a few people at the table. Harry Osborne, Rhodey, Pepper, and Tony. Three women also sat at the table that Steve didn’t know. One was MJ’s age, so Steve assumed she was her maid of honor, and an older woman.

The last woman was different. She was familiar, and Steve couldn’t figure out why. She had dark brown hair and a whimsical aura about her. Definitely some sort of artist. But Steve had no idea who she was. She was older, but not as old as Tony.

But she was _familiar_. He was supposed to know her.

“Candice,” Tony said with a smile, not moving from his spot beside Steve. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Steve looked up from his plate, suddenly unable to breathe.

He did know this woman. He knew Candice, and he knew why she was so familiar.

Candice was Peter’s surrogate mother.

“Of course! I couldn’t miss Peter’s wedding,” Candice laughed.

Tony sat down in the chair beside him as Steve stared through the wall across from him, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. Peter had never even asked about Candice when he was a child. She had been part of Steve and Tony’s life for the year that they had gone through the legal proceedings and when they helped out with her pregnancy needs.

She hadn’t been a part of their lives for almost a quarter of a century.

“Dad—“

“Peter, cool it. The food’s the same here as it is over there,” Tony said.

Steve was pretty sure if Peter could have found a way to change that, he would have.

“It’s great to see you, Mr. Stark,” Mary Jane said with a warm smile.

“Jesus, call me Tony. I’m about to be your father-in-law.”

Tony said down, and Steve fought the reaction to cringe. He didn’t want Tony anywhere near him.He didn’t want Tony to even acknowledge him

Peter laughed, turning to MJ. “God, remember when your mom met Jackson?”

Mary Jane laughed, her cheeks turning pink at what seemed to be an embarrassing memory.

Utensils clicked against fine china and Steve’s neck prickled with unease, glancing up each time someone’s fork scraped ceramic, every time anyone reached under the table to grab the napkin in their lap.

His hold around his spoon was white-knuckled.

“Hey, speaking of which, where are you parents, MJ?” Steve asked after having gathered the courage to say something. Peter was his son, for God’s sake. He should have to feel small in the presence of his—

Everyone was staring at him. Peter was _glaring_ at him.

Mary Jane cleared her throat. Peter whispered something to her, but she shook her head. “Oh, they aren’t coming. I probably should have mentioned that earlier, huh?”

There was a beat of awkward silence as Steve stared at Mary Jane like a complete idiot. Obviously—with oh so painful of a revelation—he was clearly missing out on something very important.

Candice cleared her throat. “Oh! Peter, show us the ring you made.” She turned, looking past Steve to Tony. Like Steve wasn’t even there. “He’s made this beautiful ring, Tony. Just beautiful.”

Candice was an artist that specialized in jewelry making and pottery. That was one of the main reasons they had decided on her. Steve had wanted their child’s mother to have close interests to his own. He remembered meeting a much younger Candice and her bright smile as she welcomed them into her Manhattan studio.

MJ extended her hand to show off a spectacular ring of what looked like white gold and rubies. Far from the amateurish thing Steve had expected.

“Looks like you got some help from the best,” Tony said with a smile.

Candice laughed. “We worked on that for what, six months all together? Every Sunday; a pancake breakfast, some time at the pottery wheel, and then to the metalworking.”

Pancake breakfasts and art. The two things Peter had screamed at him for. Art being the one that Peter had claimed was forced upon him, stuffed down his throat.

“Just look at this, Steve.”

So she remembered his name.

Candice pulled out her phone and Steve noticed one of her albums was named “Peter’s Creations.” There were dozens of pictures of clay sculptures, rings, necklaces, and pottery. She tapped on a picture and held it up to him.

It was a mug, painted with blue and black glaze with a spray of bright white flecks to create a striking scene of the night sky, giving the impression that sipping from the mug would be sipping from the stars.

“That’s…wow, Peter. That’s amazing,” Steve breathed. His son made that.

No, Candice’s son made that.

“Thanks,” Peter returned in a flat tone before he was talking to Harry again.

Steve handed over the picture, jerking a little when Tony grabbed his elbow.

“What are you doing?” Steve hissed under his breath.

Tony looked at him in a way Steve had never experienced. “You have two holes in your arm.”

“What?”

“Are you—can you even do drugs?” Tony whispered, but he was clearly upset.

Steve yanked his arm away, tugging down his rolled-up sleeves. “No, I can’t.”

“Then what are those?” Tony leaned in close, and Steve’s skin crawled where Tony’s breath touched his neck. “What, were you _trying_ to do drugs?”

“I got blood drawn,” Steve lied.

“Twice?”

“Twice.”

Tony gave him a disbelieving look. “You let them take your blood?”

Steve never let anyone draw blood from him. He didn’t donate blood either, just in case someone was going to try to inspect it later.  There were enough traces of the serum in his blood that someone (though they would have to be smarter than Tony) could potentially piece together a new serum.

“About MJ’s dad…he, uh, was like our dads.” Tony said quietly when the rest of the table was laughing at something Candice had said.

“Oh, Jesus,” Steve sighed, shaking his head and closing his eyes.

He had to be cursed. He had to be. 

“I didn’t know about it until a few years ago,” Tony said out of the corner of his mouth as he smiled at Peter. “And it wasn’t exactly something I wanted to bring up during the rehearsal.”

“God, I wondered where the hell they were,” Steve whispered.

“It’s okay,” Tony patted him on the shoulder.

Steve flinched.

“Sorry—“

“It’s fine,” Steve said quickly, clearing his throat.

He didn’t talk after that. He didn’t eat either.  He cut his food into pieces, pushed them around on his plate, and listened to Candice talk about how Peter had started coming over to her place on the weekends, and how they decided that Peter was going to make Mary Jane’s engagement ring.

“He’s so talented. I tell him he needs to start painting with me—you should see his sketches!—but he just hates it, so I let him go.” Candice rolled her eyes dramatically before taking a long sip of her wine.

Steve felt Peter’s eyes on him, but didn’t look up from his plate. Coming to this dinner had been a bad idea. Peter didn’t want him there, and he was making sure to drag Steve through the shattered glass of their relationship as much as he could.

It was making him pretty angry, actually, but he was not about to be the self-centered asshole that ruined his son’s wedding.

So he kept his mouth shut as Candice went on and on about Peter’s love for art, and Mary Jane’s friend, Heather, talked about how she had known immediately after meeting Peter that he was the perfect one for Mary Jane and everyone who met them was jealous of their love.

A little while later, Tony called for the table’s attention by tapping his champagne glass with his spoon. All eyes turned to Peter’s father.

Tony smiled fondly, running his tongue along his bottom lip in the telltale motion that said he was going to speak right from his heart. Steve almost had to avert his eyes then, because he hadn’t seen that look in so long that it almost made his heart swell.

“Pete, I remember the first time you came home with us and I almost had a heart attack because I thought for sure I was about to drop you on your big round head,” Tony started.

Steve couldn’t help but let out a little smirk at that, because he remembered that moment well; Tony’s wide eyes and quick breaths, freaking out with an infant Peter in his arms.

“But you managed to survive, so I guess I shouldn’t have been worried,” Tony smiled. “And the next thing I knew, you were running around the Tower—always just teetering on the edge between staying upright and falling flat on your face. Just when I started to grasp that you were growing up, suddenly you were in school. Then you were spending more time with me in the lab more than you were on homework.”

Steve tried to fit his own timeline over Tony’s, eyes distant as he saw his closeness with Peter taking hits while Tony’s strengthened. Peter had wanted that time in the lab, not time in his “sad little apartment.”

“And I distinctly remember you sitting on a tabletop while I was working on something, and you asked me how to talk to a girl,” Tony continued, his grin fond. “When we talked about that, I never in a million years expected that this girl named Mary Jane would be anything more than your first heartbreak. I thought for sure you’d inherited my tendency for going through lovers left and right, but then you were dating her for a year, then two—until finally I realized that this girl was the one.”

Steve had only talked to Peter about Mary Jane once before they started dating, and it had been an uncomfortable conversation that Steve had forced. Nothing like the longwinded talks that Tony seemed to be hinting at. Of course, he hadn’t even known at the time that Peter was talking to Tony about it more. Maybe he should have suspected something then.

Tony’s gaze turned to Mary Jane. “MJ, you’ve the best thing that’s ever happened to my son.”

My son. _My_ son.

“You won’t take any shit from him, and your overwhelming kindness even makes me want to be a better person. You know it’s serious when I feel like doing good.”

Steve licked his lips before re-forcing his smile. Trying to look like he wasn’t on the verge of breaking down at the table and making an absolute fool of himself.

_“When I’m with you, I feel like I’m actually a good person. That no matter what happens, you’re never going to think I’m not enough. And the thought of this ending because I’m too scared of commitment…ah, jeeze. Steve, will you save me the teary crap and say you’ll marry me?”_

“So,” Tony said, “I know nobody really pays attention to these speeches anyway, but, from Jackson and I, we wish you the best of luck in your future together. We love you both more than anything.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Everyone lifted their glasses and toasted the couple with words of congratulations. Steve couldn’t find the will to speak and the only people he toasted were Tony and Candice.

A silence settled over them all as Steve turned his focus to the fizzing alcohol in his glass, and it was only after Tony nudged him with his knee under the table that he realized he was supposed to say something.

Steve hadn’t prepared a single thing.  It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was going to anything but be a decoration.

But he cleared his throat, and lifted his gaze to Peter, who was smiling at him but staring at him so intently that Steve wanted to excuse himself. Pepper smiled at him, Rhodey cocked a brow, and everyone else (except for Tony, who knew better) was getting misty-eyed, probably because they thought he was too emotional to say anything.

“My favorite time of year was always the second week of July,” Steve began slowly. “All year I waited for the day when we headed to the lake and we got to spend time together as a family. I know most of your life I was in the hotel downtown while you and Tony were in the house, but I still remember how happy you were to spend every day there exploring.” He smiled genuinely then, and his eyebrows ticked up a little almost like he was going to start sobbing.

God, he missed those vacations.

He missed the vacations before the divorce. The one where Peter came charging into their bedroom and jumped on the bed, waking them both up and screeching about how it was time to get up so they could go to the little park by the lake or to the ice cream shop or to the shops.

And yeah, maybe he missed the way the sheets smelled like honeysuckle and how much he had loathed untangling himself from Tony’s arms to yank Peter into bed with them for a tickle fight.

“And, um,” his voice started to shake. “I’ve watched you grow up and…and I’m so proud of you, Peter. You’ve found yourself and you’ve done everything you set out to do in life and I’m so, so proud of you.”

Even if Peter hadn’t called him in years. Even if they hadn’t seen each other face-to-face in almost five. Even if he didn’t know who his little boy was anymore.

Tears leaked from his eyes against his will.  “I’m so happy for you and Mary Jane. You…I’m just so happy that you’re both happy.”

It was a choppy speech for a choppy relationship. Steve had only been close to Peter for half of his life. His Papa. Now he was the man who lived in a fictional world in his sad little house in Maine. Or so Peter and Tony thought. The reality was far worse: he was killing and fighting and going to sleep with a taste of lead in his mouth that he couldn’t get rid of.

Buying purpose with blood wasn’t the life he had wanted, but war would never stop needing him.

Steve hurriedly wiped his tears, hating himself for looking so pathetic in front of all of these people. Someone was probably tweeting a picture of it as he sat there looking like a complete idiot. The media would freak if a picture of him were to leak now. Some people thought he was dead.

Jesus, he couldn’t even keep himself together for a fucking rehearsal dinner.

“Steve—“

“Shut the fuck up, Tony,” Steve hissed, relishing in the feeling of his skin burning beneath his eyes, signaling the absence of wetness there.

Tony looked completely shocked when Steve finally did open his eyes again, and he realized dimly that it was probably because he’d slipped a ‘fuck’ into the conversation. It used to be that he only did that when he was especially upset, but now he was constantly surrounded by far worse profanity.

He blinked and looked back over to Peter. He noticed Mary Jane smiling and dabbing her eyes with her napkin. She gave Steve a little wave of thanks.

Something stirred in his heart that he may have once recognized as warmth.

 

 

Dessert was served not long after his and Tony’s speeches, and Steve trusted himself to be able to properly eat chocolate mousse cake without coming off as even more of a fool. Tony unsuccessfully tried to engage him in conversation, but Steve answered with as few words as possible. He wanted to go home. Not back to his apartment up the street that the US government had so kindly loaned them, but back to his pod and his men and his bare necessities.

He didn’t even want to see Bucky or Sam. They made him feel heavy, though he didn’t know why. Like his blood was the consistency of sludge in his veins, like he was being forced back into a world he had fought so hard to get away from. Sam had moved on long ago, Steve had forced him to. Not returning his calls, not telling him he’d moved to Maine, not being able to find the same connection they had shared before. It wasn’t fair to Sam or Bucky, but Steve just didn’t know how to be around them anymore.

He wanted to go home.

When everyone started to leave, Mary Jane walked right over to him with a teary smile and pulled him into a tight hug, resting her cheek on his chest.

Steve didn’t know what to do for a moment, so he just stood there stupidly before awkwardly hugging her back.

“I’m so happy you came,” Mary Jane said, pulling back and wiping her eyes with a finger. “Peter said you didn’t know if you were going to make it, but it means so much to me that you’re here.”

Steve almost started looking around to see if he was being mistaken for someone else. He barely knew MJ. They had seen each other only a few dozen times, as she had lived closer to Tony.

“Of course, Mary Jane,” he managed to reply. “I would never miss something this important.”

He wanted to apologize for mentioning her parents, but he knew that would only make it worse.

Mary Jane smiled up at him, and Steve remembered the little girl he had seen at Peter’s first science fair, her bright smile and round freckled cheeks.

Peter really must have found his soul mate. He really must have found the person on this earth made for him, just as Peter was made for her. Peter had never dated anyone else, as far as Steve knew. They had already been together longer than his and Tony’s entire relationship.

Even so, he wanted to warn her. He wanted to protect this poor girl from the horrors that marriage could inflict upon two people. How one day she could love Peter with all her heart even at his worst, only to find herself a shell of a human being a few years later.

The nagging gold-digger with unreasonable expectations that the media loved to tear apart because he was a whole, untouched carcass fit for gorging on.

He wanted to tell her never to have children. He wanted to tell her to sign a pre-nup no matter how much she thought she loved Peter Stark.

“Well, I’m off to go embarrass myself at a bachelorette party,” Mary Jane said with a chuckle. She hugged him again. “Really, Mr. Rogers. Please visit sometime. Peter and I would really like to see you.”

Steve gave her a weak smile. “I’ll try. Now go have some fun with your friends.”

Mary Jane smiled and said goodbye again before moving down the line of dinner guests.

Peter walked by him without so much as a glance and Steve found himself unprepared for the sting of being ignored.

“You leaving?” Tony asked as he started to step away.

Steve shook his head. “Just going to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a sec.”

He rushed off before Tony could say anything else to him, absently rubbing the backs of his fingers against his cheek, still startled by the fact that his beard was no longer there.

When he got into the bathroom, he was relieved to find it empty. He turned on the sink and began to splash his face with water, trying to clean himself of how terrible that had gone. A knot had formed in the small of his back and below his left shoulder, tightening with anxiety and growing fear as Blaine’s drug started wearing off. Soon he would be looking for people hiding in the bathroom stalls with weapons and taking note of—

The door swung open and Steve froze as he looked up to see who had entered.

Peter pulled furiously at his tie, his face in a scowl.

Any thought Steve had of recovering enough to walk out of this restaurant in a decent mood instantly disintegrated.

Steve rubbed his face and grabbed a washcloth to wipe off the residual moisture. He tossed it onto the counter and crossed his arms. “I didn’t know, Peter.”

“What, did you think her parents had just decided not to show up?” Peter snapped. “That they had work conflicts, like you?”

He could handle this.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Peter grabbed the trashcan beside the sink and wedged it under the doorknob.

“Why are you here?” Peter asked, his eyes sharp.

Steve’s chest pinched. “I’m here to support you, Pete—“

“No. You haven’t cared about supporting me since the day you shoved divorce papers in Dad’s face and left.”

Hurt welled in Steve’s chest. The divorce hadn’t caused this. He refused to believe that. Peter had adored him until…he didn’t know when it had stopped.

He licked his lips uncomfortably. “Is that why you hate me? Because I divorced your father?”

Peter snorted. “No. It’s that you had to keep making it worse after you filed for divorce. You had to make Dad miserable.”

Steve’s brow creased. “Peter, Tony and I discussed—“

“Stop. Just shut up and listen to me for once before you go making this about yourself.”

Steve shut up.

“You weren’t around him every day for a week at a time. I was. I still remember how horrible it was, even though I was just a kid. I remember Bruce Banner coming over after Dad locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out. Then when Bruce got the door open he told me that Dad had been brushing his teeth and ‘accidently’ swallowed too much mouthwash.” Peter’s eyes were swimming with tears. “It took me until I was twelve to understand that he’d been trying to drink it because it has alcohol in it and the Tower was dry. That was because of you!”

Steve flinched, unable to meet Peter’s eye. He had always seen Tony as the one to act too dramatically, coming over to his apartment in the middle of the night, trying to call him to hear his voice again…not a man that low.

“But then you had to make it all about you.  Dad was so fucking scared that you were going to kill yourself. He wouldn’t sleep for weeks because he sat up all night waiting just in case he was your last call. He was the one that needed help, not you. You cut off your marriage. You did that and blindsided him.”

“If he thought it was—“

“Shut up!” Peter shouted and the noise caused Steve to start. “You sat there making Dad’s life fucking miserable every time you decided to be dramatic. You could have called Bucky or Sam or Natasha or anyone else, but it was always Dad. You and I both know that he still loves you. And judging by the way he acted sometimes, I’m betting you told him you loved him too. Oh my god, you are so _disgusting_! Just thinking about it makes me so fucking angry!”

Steve knew he was supposed to stand up for himself, but he also knew that Peter would just see it as proving his point, that he just wanted all of the attention on himself. Maybe that was true. And no greater punishment for his wrongdoing was worse than his own son cutting him down without hesitation.  He brought a hand to his mouth, cursing himself when his tears welled over and tracked down his cheeks.

Again with the crying. Again with the fucking crying.

“I don’t want you in my life. I don’t want you in Dad’s life. The only reason you’re here is because MJ loves you because I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Captain America is such a shitty person underneath the mask,” Peter snarled, but he was crying too. “Don’t walk down the aisle tomorrow thinking that things are going to change just because I’m getting married. You left this family.”

There was a pause and Steve squeezed his eyes shut, trying to rid his mind of this moment. Peter was absolutely right. He had left. He had left and expected his broken family to still allow him to inhabit the same space he used to.

“I’m so sorry—“

“Literally all of this is your fault,” Peter interrupted in a hiss. “You had so many chances to get over yourself and fix this, but you’re so fucking proud that you refused. You _chose_ to become a sorry sack of shit and I’m not going to let you poison my wife and my family—including Dad and Jackson—with your moping and manipulation.”

Suddenly Peter was right in his face and Steve had no choice but to look into his eyes. The eyes that he always saw on a chubby little boy that liked to chew on blocks and thought paint was something to splash people with. Now they were dark brown pits of loathing and utter hatred. The eyes Steve knew would never leave his mind as long as he lived.

“I hate you for what you did to Dad and me. And to Jackson. Because Jackson has to live knowing his husband doesn’t even love him all the way, but instead loves some prick who lives who knows where doing who knows what. I have no sympathy for you,” Peter cut. “And if something ever happens to me and MJ, it’s because of what you did to me. Because you set the worst possible example anyone could have dreamed of for a dad.”

The words clawed deep, cutting through his flesh like hot metal. His mind reeled, trying to process all of the pain at once and failing miserably.

Even so, the anguish he felt did not puncture all of him. It did not puncture the parts that longed for the itch of sand against his skin and the raw pain of a well-timed punch to his jaw and the exhaustion that left his bones rattling and his eyes bloodshot. No pain reached there. In fact, it made him want to lung and grab Peter by the throat and explain to him in excruciating detail what all he had sacrificed. He had never felt that urge so strongly before.

Yes, was better if Peter hated him. Hating him was better than growing up with bruises and being frightened and abused.

“Well,” Steve croaked, “I’m sorry. For what I did to you and Tony. But I just want you to know that I still love you more than anything and I always will.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He headed for the door, slipping past Peter to move the trashcan while he could still feel his hands.

“Don’t even fucking try it with the guilt tripping, you pretentious ass,” Peter snapped after him, following him, haunting him as he threw open the door and—

Tony stood there, staring up at him with big brown eyes and a look of utter horror on his face.

“Excuse me,” Steve said quietly, gently pushing Tony aside.

Tony snatched his arm and Steve nearly clocked him on reflex. “Steve.”

Steve wrenched his arm away. “Don’t touch me,” he growled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow would be the last time.

“Dad, just let him—“

“You shut your goddamn mouth,” Tony spat in a voice Steve hadn’t heard since Tony had slandered him in the courtroom.  Then in a voice turned softer, “Steve, just talk to me. Please talk to me.”

Steve stopped walking and turned around, his eyes red and his cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I ruined us,” he said shakily. “But I wanted to save what I could of our family. And I did. You and Peter have done so much together. I’m proud of both of you.”

Peter charged in, giving Steve a shove. “Shut up and get out of here, so help me God,” he snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t ruin this for Dad. Don’t you fucking dare ruin this for Dad.”

Steve nodded curtly. He had ruined plenty already. “Tony. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey! Steve, come back here right—“

But Peter blocked Tony from going after him and Steve quickly made his exit before he could hear the lashing Tony was about to give that Peter didn’t deserve. Peter had just told the truth when no one else would. It wasn’t his fault. All of his anger was warranted—Peter had seen through the bullshit he had been hiding behind ever since divorcing Tony Stark.

But stepping outside meant he was drowned in the noises of gnashing dog teeth, the clicking of ammo clips locking into place, and the shrill cries that signaled mortar fire.

Terror numbed the pain, he discovered. Or maybe it was time.

 

  

* * *

 

 

Steve didn’t even make it to the ocean before Bucky stepped out of nowhere and grabbed him, Blaine hot on his heels. He tried to fight them, but Bucky and Blaine knew every move he had in his arsenal. He threw out his elbows and screamed for them to let go, but they dragged him away from the frothing, hissing waves he had so desperately wanted to dive into. Not to kill himself, just to see if he could swim all the way across the Aegean in one night. Just to do anything but think about how much he had destroyed the people he loved the most.

After a few more attempts to free himself, he fell limp, barely registering the world as he was taken through the streets of Mykonos hooked in the arms of two of his best friends. He didn’t hear Sam, but he knew he would show up before too long. All three of them were going to become witness to one of his dramatic episodes.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Bucky muttered as they started up the stairs to Steve and Blaine’s apartment.

“I’m okay,” Steve said, but he still hadn’t tried to use his legs.

“You’re not okay, Steve,” Bucky snapped. “That’s pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

He heard a door open and tensed, waiting for gunfire, but then he heard Sam’s voice and allowed himself to relax a little.

“You found him? Thank god.”

“He was headed for the cape,” Blaine said. “Were you going to jump, Steve?”

“I can’t exactly teleport down there,” Steve replied bitterly.

“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “Come on, let’s get him set up. Anyone know what happened?”

Steve found his legs again and stood once they entered the apartment, yanking himself free from his friends’ arms. He could handle himself. He was totally fine. He wasn’t even crying anymore. He was fine.

“I’m going to sleep,” he said abruptly.

Bucky frowned at him and then glanced to Blaine and Sam. “Can you give us a minute? Lemme talk to him.”

“I want to go sleep, Buck,” Steve snapped, heading over to his bed and flopping down. “It’s late and we have to wake up early.” They didn’t, but he didn’t care.

He saw a tiger in the bumps and grooves of the stucco wall in front of him from where he rested his head on his pillow. Peter hated him. Not the kind of adolescent hatred that happened to some kids, but truly and wholeheartedly hated him. Children were supposed to always love their parents. When they knew nothing else, they knew a parent’s love.

He felt the mattress sink as someone sat down on his bed.

“Steve,” Bucky tried gently, reaching out with his metal hand to carefully rest it on his shoulder.

“Go away, Bucky,” he muttered, shrugging him off. “I said I want to go to sleep.”

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Nothing I didn’t already prepare for,” he muttered.

“You ain’t actin’ right, Stevie.”

Steve shot Bucky a sidelong glare at the nickname. “Yeah, maybe I’m a little upset,” he snapped. “Doesn’t mean I need the three of you feeling sorry for me on top of everything.”

Bucky’s lips quirked. “Was it Peter or Tony this time?”

Tears pricked at his eyes. “Peter,” he whispered.

“And what’d he say?”

“I think you know.”

“I think I need you to tell me,” Bucky said gently, lowering his hand again and thumbing Steve’s shoulder.

It felt like someone running the muzzle of a rifle across his skin.

“Stop touching me,” Steve grumbled.

“What’d Peter say?”

“What do you think he said?” Steve snapped. “Go ahead. Bet you can’t guess.”

“I’m bettin’ he said somethin’ fuckin’ stupid that ain’t true,” Bucky replied. “But you gotta tell me.”

“I ruined his life. I ruined Tony’s life. I fucked up our whole family because I wanted attention.”

Bucky squeezed his shoulder a little. “Hey, that ain’t true and you know it.”

Steve turned his head to glare at him. “And what if it is true, Bucky? Peter hates me. He said it himself. And he called me manipulative and a poison and mopey. And then—then he tells me all of this stuff about Tony that I didn’t know but I should have known and about how horrible it was for him and I—“ He sucked in a little breath, sitting up. “He’s _right_. I chose this. Tony didn’t choose this, I did. I don’t have a right to be a fucking loser about all of it and begging for attention all the time and—“

“Stop it right there,” Bucky said sternly, grabbing his chin and forcing Steve to look him in the eye. “Don’t you ever talk about yourself like that, Steve. Don’t you ever think that about yourself.”

Steve just shook his head, his tear ducts somehow still functioning. “I’m disgusting,” he whispered. “All I’ve ever done is hurt the both of them.”

Bucky shook his head and instead of replying, he just hooked his metal arm around the back of Steve’s neck and yanked him to his chest. Just like he did before the war. Before Steve had become some queer copy of the man Bucky had left behind in Austria.

“No,” Bucky said, and Steve could feel the vibration of his vocal chords. “You did every last thing you could to help them and they fucked you over every time. You were just tryin’ to get better and it never worked ‘cause they won’t stop hurtin’ you. It ain’t your fault.”

“You weren’t there,” Steve argued. “Not when I got divorced and not tonight. Peter hates me. More than you did.”

There was a long silence where the only sound in Steve’s ears was the rhythmic thumping of Bucky’s heartbeat. He desperately wanted to pull away, but didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

Great, now he was becoming a shitty operator too.

“Were you gonna kill yourself if we didn’t find you?” Bucky asked quietly.

“No,” Steve immediately replied. “You think I’m that selfish? That I’d kill myself the night before Peter’s wedding?” He let out a disgusted snort. “One final ‘fuck you.’ That’s all it would be for them.”

“Stop talkin’ like that, Steve,” Bucky said with a bit of a quiver in his voice. “You got us, remember? You’ve got me and Sam, your new Army pals back in whereverthefuck, Natasha, Barton, Banner, the Thor guy—all of us.”

He wished he could have just stayed in the ice for twenty more years. Ten, even. All of this could have been avoided.

“I’m so tired, Buck,” he whispered. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of everything.”

Bucky pushed him back a little and looked him over with sad eyes. “I wish I coulda been there,” he murmured. “I wish I coulda done somethin’ to stop this.”

Steve tried to smile, but it didn’t really work. “’S okay. I woulda done everything the same.”

Bucky frowned. “Why? Why the hell would you want this?”

Because it was so much better than the alternative. He thought about telling Bucky, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t handle his friends sharing the same disgust for him as Peter did.

“Because I know it was right.” He lifted his hands to rub his eyes. “I don’t regret marrying Tony, not really. And I don’t regret having Peter. But I think I knew from the beginning that it was all gonna end.” He looked up at Bucky with a hint of a smile. “If you knew everything was gonna end, but you were having the time of your life, would you cut it off early to save yourself? I didn’t. I didn’t want to.”

“If it meant keepin’ you from bein’ like this—“

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve groaned. “Just forget it, okay? I’m done talking about it. I’m going to the wedding an then ‘m going home.”

“You’re coming home?”

_Shit._

Steve let out a tired sigh. “No, I mean back to fighting.”

“Oh.” Bucky nodded once, pulling his hands into his lap.

Steve frowned. “Bucky…”

Bucky shook his head. “Nah, I know. I know.”

The air thickened between them and Steve felt another lick of self-disgust at Bucky’s hurt. “Buck,” Steve murmured.  “I’m sorry.”

Bucky looked at him and smiled a little. “I know you’re sorry. It ain’t your fault I misunderstood.”

“It’s my fault that I’ve been gone for three years,” Steve said.

“You needed to sort things out,” Bucky said with a shake of his head. “You still gotta sort things out. You ‘n me have plenty of time to loaf around.”

Steve gazed at the blue shafts of moonlight on the tile, dimly wondering just how long they were going to live. How much of it he was going to spend with a gun in his hands, his shield abandoned in his attic long ago.

Defense was a fool’s game now. It was kill or be killed, every hour, every day.

“After I left, I didn’t even want to cry,” he said quietly. “Crying only makes it worse.” It made him see how weak he was. How fragile. Even talking about crying made him cringe. What a pathetic word. “And I know Tony’s either gonna find me tonight or find me tomorrow and he’ll try to talk to me about it but I just don’t want to, Buck. I don’t want to be around them anymore.”

The last sentence spilled from his mouth unplanned, and he closed his eyes with a quiet, sad sigh. He was a horrible father. A horrible person.

“Good. Don’t go to the wedding then,” Bucky said.

Steve’s eyes flew open, his brow creased in confusion. “What? I’m going to the wedding. I can’t just miss my son’s—“

“Why not, Steve?” Bucky gave a shrug of his shoulders. “Give Sam and me your invitation and you and Blaine go back home. Don’t go torture yourself there. Not for Peter. “

Steve shook his head. “No. Peter could change his thinking someday and—“

“And then he would understand exactly why you didn’t go.”

Steve’s lips pressed into a hard line. “He’s my son.”

“And he’s also an adult. Don’t cut’m slack because he’s your kid. He isn’t stupid,” Bucky said. “I know Tony’s wedding wasn’t good for you. This ain’t gonna be any better.”

“Mary Jane wants to see me there. I’m going for her,” Steve said with cracked resolve. MJ deserved his presence if no one else did.

Bucky gave him a look. “Steve. I’m sure she’s a real nice gal, but she’s done shit for you. If she wanted you around so bad, don’tcha think she’d make sure to send you an invitation on time? Or force Peter to call you?” He pursed his lips. “You see too much good in people you’re close to, Steve.”

Seeing the good in someone was watching the life drain from their eyes and knowing he had done his job right. Good was completing the mission, making the shot, making the kill.

Steve gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Worked with you, didn’t it?”

Bucky frowned. “Just ‘cause she says some nice things doesn’t mean she’s in your corner.”

Mary Jane had only ever been kind to him—and he knew she really did care for him—but he supposed Bucky was right. She had never gone out of her way to make him feel as important as she seemed to think he was. She was an empty promise. That made her something that was not a friendly.

Steve looked down at his hands before he could think on it much longer. “I should still talk to Tony.”

Bucky snorted. “Don’t talk to Tony. If he really wants to make things right, he’ll call ya.”

They both knew that might not happen.

Steve was silent for a long while, running through quiet memories from when days were something he looked forward to. The nights he had been unable to stop smiling, waiting for the next text from Tony to light up his phone, for the next time they would see each other and he would be able to entertain thoughts of Tony wanting to be with him. Then the nights where Tony fell asleep on his chest while they watched stupid movies that Steve didn’t pay attention to, too busy running his fingers through Tony’s hair and imagining a life together with him.

The first word Peter had said while Steve played with him alone on the kitchen floor. The frustrated look and puffy pink cheeks and the very loud “poh-t” that had him laughing for five minutes before he called Tony.

Waking up at the dining room table with his face smushed against an open book, a warm blanket around his shoulders and a hot coffee waiting for him, with the background noise of Tony playing cars in the living room with Peter.

Those memories would never return. He knew now that those feelings of love and affection would never return either. Certainly not for Tony.

He realized with a sad thump in his heart that he no longer loved Tony Stark. He had not loved Tony Stark for years. A decade, maybe. Tony had been the name in his head when he thought about love, but that had been because he forced himself to spark the memories of what it had felt like to love, though they had all been old and worn.

He would always love Peter. That was an unchangeable fact.  But he couldn’t allow Peter to hurt him anymore.

He had to make a choice. Just like he had twenty years ago, pacing around their enormous master bathroom, terrified Tony would be listening to his call as he explained to a lawyer that he needed out of his marriage. Back then he his greatest fear had been losing his son.

Well, he’d done a fucking fantastic job at preventing that. Peter had left him years ago. Long before Steve had even recognized it as leaving.

He turned his head to look at the door. “Blaine?”

His fingers twitched as the door open, wanting a rifle in his hands in case something had gone wrong outside. Blaine and Sam stepped in unharmed.

They had to have been listening to his conversation. Steve didn’t mind.

“Yeah?” Blaine flicked his gaze back and forth between Bucky and Steve.

Steve knew he would hate himself for this decision—he could already feel the self-loathing curdling his blood and squeezing his bones, but he had to do one more selfish act for one more selfish reason. Before the numbness wore off and he needed another injection to keep him sane for the night. Before that injection could make him feel like he needed to be somewhere he wasn’t wanted.

“Can we catch a plane tonight?”

Sam was the first one to grin, but Blaine followed close behind him.

“Yeah,” Blaine said, his smile catching the moonlight. “But are you sure you wanna go back? We’ve got two more days of leave.”

Steve smiled a little and looked to Sam. “Hey Sam, you ever been to Spain?”

Sam was smiling so hard Steve thought his teeth might crack. “Nope.”

He nodded a few times, pretending to think about that answer. “Hm. Sounds like we have to go then.”

“Copy that,” Blaine smirked, pulling out his phone. “I’ll have an extract by oh-five hundred.”

As excitement and goodwill started to buzz in the room, Steve pretended not to feel the crosshairs sliding up back and the shadows turning into armed men. His heartbeat thrummed in his chest and the anxiety started to replace his gentle thoughts of sunny beaches and sand between his toes, but he would make it.

He would skip his son’s wedding and he would survive.

Bucky put a hand on his shoulder again, smiling though it didn’t reach his eyes. Bucky was still worried, and Steve didn’t blame him. He wasn’t so sure he would make it through this without cracking apart. But he would be breathing, and that was what mattered.

Even so, he was truly abandoning his family.  Just as Peter claimed he had done twenty years ago.

Tony would not forgive him.

It wouldn’t even cross Peter’s mind.

Steve’s eyes glazed over with thoughts of a past that would forever haunt him. The family that would haunt him. Even as he put on a smile and slowly stood up to pack his things, he knew he would never be able to feel whole again. Not after what he had done. What he was about to do.

He had his friends, sure, but he would be alone for the rest of his impossibly long life. He had made the decision to save Peter from abuse and to save Tony from becoming an abuser. Success had come with a price had hadn’t been prepared to pay. Not like this. Not ending up with an ex-husband who never let go and a son that despised him.

Tony and Peter were hidden somewhere out his window, tucked within the landscape of the blue domed rooftops and white stucco of Mykonos. Happy with their lives and loves. Happy without him. Happy to be rid of him.

Maybe, just maybe, he had made the wrong decision after all.

And oh, how life loved to bludgeon him with the consequences.

 


End file.
